


Sunday

by Inbetween



Series: Days Of The Week [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Meeting, Fluff, Gen, It's not that deep guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inbetween/pseuds/Inbetween
Summary: Peter isn't sure how he expects his first meeting with a major supervillain to go. But it wasn't on a Sunday afternoon, in a shitty grocery store, trying to get away from a pervert with 3 feet on him.“I need you to pretend to be my brother,” Peter tells Loki.The god starts, eyes wide in the manner of someone that had had no intention of being approached or acknowledged by society today. “What?”“The cashier’s a creep.” Peter says tightly, "and I need you to pretend to be my brother."If you vibed with the fandom back in 2012, when Loki was off menacing New York and the avengers were a big happy family, this is the one-shot for you! Add in a healthy dose of Loki being a bastard and Peter being a dork, and enjoy :)
Relationships: Loki & Peter Parker
Series: Days Of The Week [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682737
Comments: 49
Kudos: 472





	Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Just go ahead and assume that while Avengers (2012) happened, and so did spider-man homecoming, nothing else did. :)
> 
> I may turn this into a 7 part series, where each one-shot is Peter running into Loki on a different day of the week. It'd follow their relationship from enemies to friends, and possibly family :)  
> That entirely depends on the response this fic gets though, so be sure to drop a comment if you're interested! :D  
> I am a needy ho. I need those comments guys.

Peter might be panicking. He stares at the can of tomato soup in his hand, fingers twitching on its side. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. He’s so focused on _not_ looking, that it takes him a moment to realize that he’d been staring at the front of the can for an unnaturally long time.

Slowly, mechanically, he slides it back on the shelf. It scrapes. He flinches and whips his hand back. His eyes flick to the man a little way down the aisle.

Loki doesn’t seem to notice though, dragging a hand down his face with a quiet sigh.

He looks tired, something that reads in the slump of his shoulders and the careful flatness of his movements. Peter can only tell because it’s a stark difference to the pixelated Loki moving around on the cashier’s shitty tv.

The headline streaks past, a rerun of Tuesday’s attack—the camera jerks violently then, green lightning cracking past. When it steadies, the camera had fallen onto its side. The gold-clad figure prowls in the distance, shoulders thrown and a glint of white teeth like a warning.

Peter slowly pans his gaze back to the Loki in front of him, trying to act natural.

This Loki wasn’t dripping with gold armor and blood. This Loki had his hair in a bun, eggs in his basket, and _jeans._

 _‘Maybe I’m wrong.’_ He thinks half-heartedly. _‘Maybe this guy just had the misfortune of looking like one of New York’s current supervillains.’_

Loki pulls a can off the shelf—something yellow—before sighing again, harder, and slamming it back into place. The shelf dents. Loki’s shoulders twitch back, surprised, before he goes still. Then, with deceptively mild movements, he turns on his heel and walks away.

It reminds Peter of a slighted cat, trying to act dignified after doing something stupid. Like falling off a table. Or losing control in a shitty grocery store that had a list of the employees’ favorite rats taped up behind the register.

“Oh man,” Peter says miserably. “That’s totally Loki.”

Which is, of course, why God chose exactly then to pick on his favorite clown.

Peter’s spidey sense had remained silent on the supervillain buying milk in the opposite aisle for the 20 minutes Peter had been shopping: It was why he hadn’t been convinced it was _actually_ Loki.

Now though, it went off; fast and hard and adrenaline launching his heart into his throat as the hairs on the back of his neck rose and slid ice down his spine.

 _‘I fucked up. He noticed me.’_ Peter thinks numbly, and steps neatly to the side.

The hand aimed for his shoulder falls through empty space. Peter stares at it. It was a large hand, thick, meaty, and calloused. He recalls Loki’s hands—ones you’d find on a pianist, slender and nails painted black, and realizes: _‘It’s not Loki.’_

“Oh, sorry,” The man says, grinning down at Peter. “Did I scare you?”

He’s wearing the store’s uniform under a jacket. Peter’s spidey sense is still going off.

Peter offers him a stiff smile and tries to smooth down the hairs on his forearm. “No, it’s fine.” He says tightly. His weight shifts onto the balls of his feet, ready to dodge. “Can I help you?”

The man makes no move to attack though, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. He’s large, taller than Peter by a head and wider by the same amount.

“Ah, that should be my question, right? Are you looking for tomato soup?” He reaches above Peter’s head, turning his body inward and Peter freezes.

He pulls a can off the shelf. “What about this one?” The man asks. Peter, rigid and caught between him and the shelf, bites the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “That’s fine.”

“Are you here alone?” The man smiles and drops the can into Peter’s basket. He eases back slightly. Not enough for Peter to move unless he used force. Peter doesn’t respond.

“Man, I used to love being sent shopping on my own as a kid. Use the extra money for a little something, huh?” He says, still staring down at him. “Although,” The man grins. “I can’t let you buy beer or anything. You look pretty young. How old are you?”

“Listen,” Peter tries, smiling awkwardly up at him. “I’m running late. Do you think you could?” He motions at the lack of space between them. _‘Maxwell,’_ The nametag on the man’s shirt reads.

Maxwell blinks down at him, before laughing and moving away. “Sorry,” He grins. He looks like he’s in his 30’s. “I must have gotten distracted by how pretty you are.”

Peter stares at him, wide-eyed. “Okay.” He says stiffly and edges free along the shelf.

“You didn’t answer my question though,” Maxwell says, padding after Peter when he starts making his way to the cashier. “Are you here alone? How old are you?”

There’s no-one at the register. Peter’s stomach sinks. It reaches his feet when Maxwell is the one to move behind the counter.

“Actually,” Peter says, stepping backward. “I still need to get some stuff from the store.”

Immediately, Maxwell moves back out. “I can help, my shift ends in 10 minutes and my co-worker is always late. You won’t be done in time otherwise.” He’s still smiling.

“No, it’s fine. You don’t have to, really.”

Did grocery stores have backdoors?

“It’s alright.” Maxwell presses, and comes to a stop in front of Peter—too close, just like before.

“Right.” Peter says dully, steps away, and turns back toward the store.

It’s a small, grimy thing. It’s lit up solely by what sunlight can pierce the broken blinds of the windows lining the face of the store. The tall shelves blocked said light from reaching the center of the shop, but the coolers along the back wall lit up the last aisle.

His spidey sense pricks beneath his skin, and he jerks forwards—he hears Maxwell inhale deeply from behind him and lurches toward the coolers in a split-second decision.

_‘Did he just try to fucking sniff me? Great going Parker. You chose the one grocery store with no-one but a creep and a supervillain inside.’_

And apparently the one aisle with the supervillain in it. Peter falters. Loki casts him a disinterested look, then goes back to examining a carton of milk with a delicate kind of disgust.

Peter takes a deep breath, braces himself, then speed walks towards him.

“You need to be my brother.” Peter tells Loki.

The god starts, eyes wide in the manner of someone that had had no intention of being approached or acknowledged by society today. “What?”

“The cashier’s a creep.” Peter says smiling tightly. His palms are sweating. He wipes them off on his pants. _‘I hope he can’t smell fear.’_

Loki regains control of his expression with frightening quickness. He tilts his head to consider him, poker-faced. Maxwell is walking toward them.

 _‘Please,’_ Peter thinks. _‘I know you’re a murderer but please don’t be an asshole too.’_

The already narrow aisle was divided by coolers filled with frozen food, while the shelf on the back wall was a cooler devoted to dairy products. This means that when Maxwell comes up to them, there isn’t enough space.

“I never did get your name,” Maxwell says.

Peter, who was now crowded with the back of his knees against the lip of the coolers, gives him a wobbly smile. “Uh, its—"

“Tony.” Loki interrupts, offering Maxwell a lazy smile. “His name’s Tony. I’m his…brother.”

Despite knowing how fake the smile was, Peter can’t help but think it was much prettier than Maxwell’s—something that became considerably less hard when the man’s face collapsed into a scowl.

“I thought you were here alone?” Maxwell snaps, ignoring Loki completely.

Loki, who’s criminal profile could be summed up in the word ‘Diva’, took this about as well as expected. “Yes, well, thinking clearly isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

It occurs to Peter, as he sees Maxwell’s eyes snap to Loki without an inch of recognition in them, that he may have just fucked up.

 _‘It’s the jeans,’_ Peter realizes with a unique kind of dread. _‘They give him too much power. There’s no way to reconcile this Loki with the one that tore up a block on Tuesday.’_

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Maxwell growls, throwing his shoulders back.

“He has to _ask_.” Loki bemoans, turning to peter with a perfectly sculpted mask of pity.

Peter, who had been trying to climb over the coolers and escape, freezes. “Um.” He says eloquently.

Maxwell starts to turn red.

“Listen,” Peter says awkwardly. “I think we may have had a misunderstanding, but um. I don’t need any help with my groceries, so—”

“It’s not a misunderstanding if he’s incapable of understanding in the first place.” Loki chips in, looking far too delighted with the turn of events—he’s watching Maxwell with the kind of glee Peter recognizes from the bullies at school. He wants to see what’ll happen when Maxwell bursts.

“Do you want to fight?” Maxwell snarls, stepping toward him and Peter puts a hand on his chest to stop him.

“Sorry,” Loki sighs and manages to look genuinely apologetic. “I don’t fight on Sundays.”

“Maybe we can all calm down?” Peter tries squeakily.

Maxwell, completely unappreciative of the fact Peter was trying to _save his life_ takes that as an invitation to lift Peter’s hand from his chest, and thread his fingers through.

Peter gapes at him.

Loki picks up a red carton of milk and holds it up to Maxwell’s face. “Wow,” Loki drawls. “Do you think you could match the apples next?”

The whole thing ends with Peter scanning both their groceries as Maxwell cradles his broken hand from behind the counter. He alternates between cursing them out and entreating Peter to _‘come with me to the back and help me wrap my hand?’_

Peter had very politely asked if he wanted him to call the hospital. Maxwell had refused, and Loki had given him a smile that was more teeth than mirth and said _‘Fuck off then.’_

True to his word, Loki hadn’t fought. It just turned out that when you tried to punch a god in the stomach, the god made like a brick wall and let you break 4 fingers.

“Did you have to pick a fight with him?” Peter huffs, holding the door open as Loki steps out into the sunlight. He gives Peter an arch look. His eyes are bottle green.

“What did you _think_ I was going to do?” Loki asks coolly and begins to make his way down the street. Peter should probably let him go. Was probably pushing his luck interacting with the supervillain once already. But…

Peter jogs to catch up. “That’s fair,” he admits. Then: “Why’d you help me?”

Loki scowls at him. “You asked.” He points out, annoyed.

“Oh.” They walk in silence for a few minutes. Loki’s posture is neutral—almost unnaturally so, which is why Peter knows he’s being assessed. “Is that the standard, then?” Peter asks finally. “For supervillains to help people, that is.”

Loki stops walking abruptly, piercing Peter with a sharp, disgusted look. “Child.” He says icily. “Do I _look_ like the standard to you?”

Peter takes in the dark circles, chipped nail polish, green Henley and the grocery bag swinging from his grip. “No,” Peter realizes, blinking at him in surprise. “You don’t.”

Loki rolls his eyes and spins dramatically on his heel. “Besides,” Loki says blandly. “It’s a Sunday. If you want me to knife him, ask me on a Tuesday. Or something.”

“Or something?” Peter asks, unsure why he’s risking the man’s mercurial temper.

Loki shrugs. “I’m not a very consistent man.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks.” He says. “Here,” Peter adds, digging around in his groceries—when he finds it, he drops the packet of gummy worms into Loki’s bag. “Your groceries make me sad,” Peter admits when the man gives him an unimpressed look.

Loki ignores him, but he does speed up, clearly intending to leave him behind.

“My name’s Peter!” Peter calls after him on a whim. Loki holds up the middle finger and is quickly absorbed by the crowd.

Peter, who had been expecting anything but that, laughs; a surprised, jerky sound. As far as supervillains went…Peter pulls out his phone. He wouldn’t mind meeting Loki again.

As long as it was on a Sunday, that is.

 _‘Mr. Stark,’_ The text he sends reads. _‘I think Loki is going to use jeans and cornstarch to destroy the world. Who buys cornstarch?’_


End file.
